


take a picture, it'll last longer

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, au kinda, but pierre is a paddock photog, charles is the same, ill have to tag as i go, max and pierre are friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-13 16:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20585201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: Charles Leclerc is one of the most highly anticipated drivers in the world. Pierre Gasly just got his realistic dream job as a motorsport photojournalist.Can I make it any more obvious?





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Cue the groan of every person that checks this ship tag like "god coastcity is back at it again someone please shut her up".  
bit YOU GUYS IVE BEEN WRITING FIC SINCE I WAS A KID AND IVE NEVER WRITTEN AN AU, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? this is like....kind of AU, kind of not, but I am SO excited to write it, I have it all plotted out in my head and stuff. Tags right now are sparse but I promise i'll fix that as I go on and have things to tag.  
will be multi chapters, and ill try to update when i can as long as i have the motivation to write! um this is longer than my normal stuff, so i feel the need to add- like all of my writing this is mostly unedited, so if theres any grammatical or spelling errors i am very sorry.  
as is usual, this is a work of fiction. please do not copy/use without my permission.

It's not that Charles isn't excited to drive for Ferrari, not at all. He thinks it's almost everyone's dream to be able to wear the bright red someday, to have one of the most iconic teams on the grid backing you, but sometimes he misses how nuch more relaxed the world seemed at Alfa Romeo. The pressure at Ferrari is incomparable to Alfa- there, the cameras weren't always on him, and more often than not the press seemed content to ignore Charles existence in the paddock. He didn't have a championship winner as his teammate, and in an Alfa it was a very pleasant surprise to be fighting against a Red Bull or Mercedes, and not a given like it is in the Scuderia.

Still, he's more than thankful for the team's faith in his ability to achieve, and when he looks into the mirror wearing the bright red kit for the first time as a driver for Ferrari, not as a junior or reserve but as a fully fledged member, it takes his breath away. Not a whole lot of people get to live out dreams like that at the tender age of twenty-one.

But right now, he really fucking wishes that everyone would leave him alone and stop asking him how he's doing. Testing was never a relaxed time for any of the teams or drivers, but all of the sudden his stress is "frustration", and somehow there are already articles about how he can't handle the pressure. Even some of his own teammates look at him with pitying glances, and he can't stand it- the second a path out of the motorhome clears, he disappears into the hustle and bustle of the paddock.

Barcelona is always cold during testing, but this year it feels unusually so- and a quick glance at the sky seems to imply that the weather is heavily considering getting worse. Charles sighs against the wind chill and zips the red windbreaker around his shoulders up tighter to his body- as inconvenient as snow and ice could be for testing, and as far of a cry it is from the temperate climate of Monaco, Charles can't help but enjoy the frost nipping at his skin. It wakes him up, reminds him that _no, this whole thing isn't just a dream_, and _yes, you really are in one of the most coveted seats in Formula One._

There's something going on outside the Red Bull motorhome complex when he walks past- they've drawn a crowd, even with the limited number of paddock guests there are for testing weekend- and he looks over for a moment, intending to maybe get a glimpse of whatever commotion is going on. Unfortunately, Charles has never been the best with his walking coordination- and in the short second he's looked away from in front of him, he's managed to barrel directly into someone wearing a chartruese press vest and carrying one of the most unwieldy cameras Charles has ever seen.

The poor photographer he ran into looks a combination of hurt and pissed off, particularly after he looks down and notices the hood off his lens has popped off and shattered into dozens of pieces on the hard concrete.

"What the fuck..." the man manages, speaking with an accent that Charles thinks is maybe northern French, but barely disguises his contained anger. 

"I am so sorry," Charles starts, sounding completely mortified, but when he speaks, the photographer looks up from where he's kneeling, attempting to gather the broken plastic at his feet.

"You're Charles Leclerc...I just ran into a fucking F1 driver," he whispers, staring up in a mixture of awe and abject horror, and Charles can practically see the gears grinding in his brain.

"Uh, yeah mate. Yeah, that's my name," he says awkwardly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, "but that definitely wasn't your fault, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going..." The man with the camera is still looking at him like a deer in the headlights, and Charles can't help thinking that _one- this guy is really cute_, and _two- he looks very familiar in a way Charles doesn't understand_. He offers a sheepish grin and a hand so he can help pull the man off the floor, and the latter tentatively accepts it, bouncing back up to his feet and cautiously checking the rest of his camera, which thankfully seems to be okay. 

"I can replace the...lens...piece...thing. I can just ask my manager to-" Charles starts, but he's cut off by the other man before he can finish.

"No, it's alright. Just a lens hood," the other man sighs in resignation, shaking his head, the bangs peeking from under his hoodie fluttering in the chilly wind. It's fluffy and the ends of it are tinted with the tiniest bit of blonde, and Charles doesn't think he could be much older than himself. He's certainly not dressed like the usual professional photographers prowling the paddock- his press vest is pulled over a light gray hoodie, he's wearing a set of fashionably destroyed jeans (and if Charles knew who the guy was he'd ask him- _don't your knees get cold like that?_) and a pair of sneakers. It's a nice respite from the polos and dad shoes, or the fitted pantsuits he's used to seeing the media in the paddock wear.

The photographer offers one hand out to Charles, the other cradling the camera around his neck. Charles takes it and offers a hearty shake, trying to contain a shiver when he feels how cold the mans' hand is.

"I didn't catch your name?" Charles asks, and internally curses himself for sounding so rude, but the other man doesn't seem to make anything of it.

"Pierre," the other man supplies, and yup, Charles was definitely spot on with his assumption of northern French, "Pierre Gasly. I uh, work for...Motorsport UK." 

"Pierre, huh?" Charles asks, savoring the tiny blush that's appeared on the photographer's cheeks, unsure whether he's caused it or the freezing cold, and Pierre nods in confirmation, making eye contact with Charles. His eyes are a wonderful shade of blue, Charles notes, committing a moment to memorizing every single aspect of Pierre's face. "I imagine I'll see you around?" he asks, then immediately regrets, wondering why he's gotten so bold as to be that forward.

But Pierre just smirks up at him, as if all the shyness he had just displayed left his body. There's a knowing gleam in his eyes, and Charles can't shake the feeling of uncanny familiarity nagging at his brain.

"I guess if you do well you will," Pierre laughs, giving Charles a pat on the the shoulder, and when warmth blooms under Pierre's hand, Charles realizes how fucked he is. "Yeah, guess so..." he says, sounding noncommital.

His only saving grace from the awkwardness of the moment is the smart watch on his wrist beeping and buzzing as if on cue, an angry text from his PR minder asking where the hell he's disappeared to. 

"Shit," he curses when he realizes that the crowd around the Red Bull pen has now disapated and there are delicate snowflakes falling from the sky, "I've gotta go now. Nice meeting you, Pierre! See you when I win!" he grins, spinning on his heel and rushing back to the Ferrari hospitality, leaving the photographer standing with his mouth gaping. Charles really hopes that everyone who is seeing his face right now chalks up the redness to exposure to cold, or reflections from the bright red team jacket he's wearing.

_Fuck_, Charles can only manage to think as he steps back into the Ferrari motorhome, immediately attacked with a million worried glances. _Fuck_.


	2. 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Listen, Pierre," Max starts, voice sounding grave, "Charles Leclerc is bad news."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow this was so much fun to write, max and pierre bantering is just a Joy. also this is supposed to be based somewhat in reality and follow that sort of timeline, but there might be some teething issues....bear with me please and thank u <3 also, thanks for all the feedback on the first chapter, it means so much to me that other people can enjoy what im writing

The worst part about Pierre's trip to Melbourne is undoubtedly the plane ride. His editor-in-chief had promised him a flight with a layover and a reasonable takeoff hour when he agreed to take the Australian GP, but apparently one of his higher ups is incompetent and barely managed to get him any flight at all. Thirteen hours on a plane is not something he looks forward to, ever, and Pierre has never been more grateful to throw his body into a hotel bed after such a shitshow of a flight, even if jet lag means he won't get any sleep at all.

Which has lead to his current situation- Pierre is pretty content to lay on the ground for a money shot, sure, but right now he's losing the battle of keeping his eyes open. Not even the triple shot of espresso he had downed this morning on an empty stomach- God, that barista had looked genuinely concerned for his health- was enough. He blinks rapidly, takes a deep breath and considers the situation- he's laying on the burning asphalt in an area of the paddock that's bound to be high traffic when the press conference ends, holding several thousands of dollars worth of camera and lenses, and he's still about to fall asleep- what a joke.

Pierre's too consumed by his thoughts to notice a familiar figure approaching, only snapped out of his own consciousness by a sharp jab to his rib by someone's foot.

"Ow, what the fuck!" he says, squinting up into the sunlight to look at his attacker. "Max, you're a fucking bastard."

Pierre's awarded with a shit eating grin and a hand offering to help him to his feet, but instead he just hands Max his camera, and scrambles to his feet on his own, frantically dusting the dirt off his jeans. In the meantime, Max has taken the liberty of squishing his own face up to the viewfinder and attempting to take some shots of his own, much to Pierre's chagrin. He gently pries the expensive piece of equipment out of Max's hands, ignoring the Dutch driver's protest, and secures it safely back into the bag hanging off his shoulder. As soon as it's tucked away, Max smiles at him and pulls him into a hug, smacking Pierre's back while they embrace.

"Pierre! I haven't seen you since last season, mate, how have you been?"

Pierre pulls back from Max's grip, takes in every aspect of him, gives him a warm smile in return.

"I'm here, aren't I? I've been good," he responds, grateful that there's at least one person on the grid that isn't going to treat him like a snitch or a nuisance just because of the media pass around his neck.

"Yeah, speaking of that," Max starts, his voice dropping into a more serious tone, "I'm really sorry I couldn't get you a position. I tried..." he says, voice trailing off a bit, "even tried getting Christian to do something, since he always wanted to talk about how you were the team's favorite intern. But it was something about the switch to Honda, their logistics..." Max shakes his head, looking apologetic, but Pierre dismisses it quickly.

"It's all good. I still found a way to come back and bother you anyways," he laughs, and Max perks up a bit, grabbing at the pass hanging off Pierre's lanyard and reading it while the Frenchman continues. "Except now I don't have to trail your sweaty ass around all day."

Max drops the pass, gives Pierre a light and playful punch to the arm. "Oh come on!" He says, feigning offense, "You loved taking pictures of my sweaty ass!" he finishes, snorting a bit while failing to contain a laugh. 

Max is right, of course. The internship for Red Bull Racing had been a dream in and of itself, but Pierre never imagined he and the team's up and coming young driver would hit it off so well as to become friends. It was surreal for Pierre, at first- he was then barely twenty, had just moved a few months prior to the UK to go to university, and was working his first internship in college, which somehow landed him a close friendship with a Formula 1 driver. In retrospect, it made sense- after all, on many weekends the young Frenchman was the only other person in the Red Bull garage that was anywhere near Max's age, and it was quite literally Pierre's job to trail Max everywhere with a camera and a memorized page of pre-planned publicity responses, but Pierre seemed to be the only one mindful of Max's humanity and need for privacy when shit hit the fan. Their mutual respect had grown into something else, and after the end of Pierre's second year of interning for the team, he could confidently say that Max Verstappen was one of his best friends.

"Motorsport UK," Max whistles in appreciation, "You're working for the big bucks now, huh P?" He nudges Pierre in the ribs with his elbow, quite obviously relishing every moment he had to take the piss.

"Not quite as big of bucks as you, mister Red Bull contract. Guess who had to write that article?" Pierre laughs, "Meanwhile, I still fly Ryanair." Max cringes, gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"Mate, if I beat Seb this year in the championship I'll pay for you to fly first class wherever you want next season. No more Ryanair," Max offers, and throws out his pinky so Pierre can link his as well.

"Deal," the Frenchman says, linking his pinky up with Max's and giving his own goofy grin in response. It feels nice, even natural, to have this sort of banter with Max, even if the latter is much more of a celebrity than Pierre will ever be. He knows that Max enjoys it too, loves to spend time around people that just make him feel normal, like any other twenty-one year old and not like one of the best drivers in the world.

"Shit." Max deadpans and pales, checking his phone frantically. Four missed calls from Marko. It's enough to make Pierre wince. Max shakes his head, sends a text that just says "I'm coming" and gives Pierre an apologetic look.

"Listen, I have to go deal with....this," he says, motioning to his phone, "but I'll meet you after the PR stuff is done? We can go out for dinner or something?"

"Sounds great. I'll text you?" Pierre adds, more of a question than a statement, and Max nods in agreement.

"Right. See you then. Don't be late, Gasly!" Max calls, giving Pierre another friendly pat on the arm before hurrying back to the Red Bull garage.

-

They take Pierre's rental Toyota for dinner at some run down and rather greasy diner outside the city, hoping to avoid attracting attention by any of Max's fans. Despite Pierre's protests and threats to call the rental company, Max pries the keys out of his hands and insists on driving, claiming that "he literally cannot stand being the passenger, God Pierre you drive so damn slow!" The Frenchman rolls his eyes and just remains thankful that he bought the optional insurance policy when Max gives him a maniacal smile and revs the piss out of the poor little Corolla.

In the end, the diner seems to be a decent enough choice- nobody seems to notice they're eating right next to Max Verstappen, and even if they did, none seem to care enough to bother them. Pierre orders some sort of burger that looks extremely unhealthy, and Max gives him a miserable pout before ordering a salad for himself. Damn weight-watching.

"So," Pierre starts, leaning onto the table with both of his elbows after the waitress leaves to put in their orders, "how has being Max been lately, huh?"

Max laughs, tears off part of the wrapper around his straw and blows it directly at Pierre's eye, the latter recoiling in a rather melodramatic way.

"Pretty damn good, I'd say," Max says, laughing a bit when Pierre crosses his arms and gives him a jokingly angry glare, "the new engines feel good. Really good. Way better than the shitty Renaults," he says, scrunching up his nose, and Pierre nods sympathetically.

"Speaking of Renaults..." Pierre starts, voice sounding measured but cautious, "what about you and Daniel?"

"What about me and Daniel?" Max quips defensively, and Pierre blinks in shock. Max shakes his head apologetically, not meaning to snap at the older man, sounds a little downtrodden when he speaks again.

"He says he's happy with them...and who am I to stand in the way of his happiness? We've got bigger things to focus on, both of us..." he trails off before Pierre grabs his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He knows rather personally how hard Daniel's switch had been on Max, and it almost made him feel better that Max had finally started to accept what had happened.

"You will figure it out. Both of you, I'm sure of it," Pierre says confidently, hoping to sound as encouraging as possible, and Max perks up a bit.

"Yeah. Yeah, I hope you're right," he says, looks up and makes eye contact with Pierre again, "Anyways, how have you been, Pierre? Like, actually been, not that bullshit you always say in the paddock," Max inquires, rolling his eyes at the way Pierre's face turns pink.

"I've been alright, Max. Been just fine. I graduate at the end of this year. Taking the rest of my classes for this year online while I work..." Pierre says, and he feels a warm and fuzzy inside when Max gives him a proud look from across the table. 

"Hey, wait," Pierre interrupts suddenly, "what do you know about Charles Leclerc?"

Max's face drops, and he gives Pierre a deadly look.

"What do you mean, what do I know about Charles Leclerc? That he drives for Ferrari? That he's supposed to be better than me? That everyone loves having Charles Leclerc pity parties when he makes mistakes because he's oh so young? That he's a selfish pri-" Max's voice sounds venomous, rises an octave before he shakes his head, regains his composure. "What do you want to know about Charles Leclerc, Pierre? And why?"

Pierre's brain grinds to halt for a second, half wondering himself why he wants to know more about the Monegasque driver who broke an important part of his camera rig on one of the most highly anticipated weekends of the F1 season. Pierre wills himself to believe its just part of the need for journalistic inquiry within and not anything more.

"Just hadn't seen him around the paddock before very much. Was wondering why they picked him for Ferrari, that's all," Pierre responds cooly, ignoring the burning of his face and the daggers that Max is staring into him.

"He's supposed to be the next big thing," Max sneers. His face grows serious and he grips Pierre around the wrists, not breaking eye contact.

"Listen, Pierre," Max starts, voice sounding grave, "Charles Leclerc is bad news. And I'm not just saying that because he's my rival. He's...his only concern is winning. He doesn't care whose career he ruins to do it," Max gives Pierre a pleading look, "Promise me you won't get involved with him...or Ferrari, for that matter?"

Pierre's a bit taken aback. Although his only prior encounter with Charles had been short, the soft spoken Monegasque had seemed nice enough, if not downright friendly. But Max is his best friend, and is looking at him with such sincerity that he can't dismiss what the Dutchman had said.

"Yeah, Max," Pierre says, forcing a smile onto his face, "Yeah, I promise I won't get involved with Ferrari. Or Charles."

Max gives him a beaming smile, and before Pierre has any more opportunity to wonder what exactly is going on, their food has made it to the table, and Max is already ravenously picking at his salad.


	3. 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it only took me like 2 weeks of writing other stuff to get here lmao  
Anyways I know the story is Slow right now, but i promise ill speed it up soon. but you gotta get those critical meetings and character stories in there first to properly world build yknow?  
anyways this was hastily written when i got hit with motivation so the writing isnt the best, isnt the most clear. just stick with it.

Charles is no stranger to playing a twisted game of Where's Waldo in the paddock. It's almost like a grown up version of hide and seek- avoid the dozens of people trying to stop you for a signature or a selfie, find the right person in the crowds of people dressed in nearly the same outfit, make sure to cast a smile at the adoring fans or the clicking shutters of the media.

He's at least learned to pay more attention to where he's going now. That photographer he ran into in Barcelona- _Pierre_, Charles whispers the name as he walks- running into Pierre turned out to be okay, in the end, and Charles hates to admit that he was even charmed by a paddock photog, knows he should dislike the cute Frenchman for invading his privacy and-

_Cute, did I really just think that?_ Charles shakes his head and pretends like he isn't intrigued by even the very air surrounding Pierre, pretends like he hasn't mentally imagined the raspy French accent in his ear every night since they first met. He grips the small, shoddily gift-wrapped box clutched in his hands tighter, takes a moment to realize how silly he probably looks, like a child on Christmas morning, but rushes through the thinning throngs of paddock guests on the side furthest the entrance once more.

Finally a familiar frame comes into sight. Pierre's wearing a light colored t-shirt under a hot pink press vest and impossibly tight skinny jeans, crouching low in what seems like a rather dangerously trafficked area near the Williams garage, and Charles breathes a sigh of relief, grateful that he didn't have to leave this embarrassing moment to one of the Ferrari press officers.

"Hey!" he shouts, and Pierre jumps from his position, startled. He scrambles to his feet, slinging the camera body over his shoulder like he was born to do it, and looks up at Charles.

"Pierre, right?" Charles asks, smiling a bit when Pierre just nods with thinly veiled awe that an F1 driver that isn't in a Red Bull remembers his name. 

"I got you something." Charles thrusts out the parcel in his hands into the photographer's. Pierre stares down at it with a look of confusion at first, doesn't reach out to take it right away, and the self conciousness immediately hits Charles- _wow Charles, that was so stupid, why would he-_

"Thanks?" Pierre says, sounds unsure of himself. "Next time don't yell when I'm focusing on a shot, you scared the crap out of me!" He beams at Charles, who can only manage a forced laugh and a shrug of an apology. Pierre's thumbs find the edges of the confetti patterned wrapping paper and gently leverage it up, slowly uncovering the branded cardboard of the box beneath it. Canon, it reads in familiar red type.

"Um, surprise!" Charles mumbles, rubs his neck and tries to ignore the burning of his face. He feels so utterly stupid and exposed, far from the safety of Ferrari hospitality, where he's sure he will have to return later to yell into a pillow for being so dumb.

"Hey, lens hood," Pierre says dumbly, stating the blatantly obvious, and it calms Charles to know he's not the only one mucking this interaction up, "It's the right size, too. Nicer than the one you broke, even," Pierre grins, running his fingers over the box thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I, uh, asked my press officer if she could help me figure out which one it was, so I could get you a replacement. Turns out there are a lot of options," Charles laughs, "It was the least I could do," he smiles sheepishly.

"You didn't have to, Charles," Pierre says with earnest, looking back up to the man in front of him, "Seriously, everyone back home got a kick out of me saying I couldn't use that lens for the rest of testing because I ran into the new paddock star."

Charles feels his face heat up- paddock star?_ Him? _

"You know, Pierre, you could make it up to me?" He asks suddenly, hopefully, takes a second to completely absorb the puzzled look Pierre gives him, the Frenchman's pink lips formed into a perfect little pout.

"Yeah?" Pierre quips in return, his own face slightly pink as he turns the box over and over in his hands nervously.

"Go out to breakfast with me, Monday after the race? I have testing again om Tuesday..." Charles trails off, feels immensely proud of himself for overcoming that mental hurdle, but then wants to backtrack immediately when he sees the shock on Pierre's face. 

"Or, we can call it a private interview, if you would rather, or no-"

"I'd love that, Charles." Pierre's eyes glint turquoise in the morning light, and if Charles hadn't been raised with manners be probably would be kissing the former out of breath already. _Patience is a virtue_, he can hear his own brain supply rather uselessly.

"Great! Let me give you my number!" Charles exclaims, takes Pierre's phone out of his hands when it's offered and inputs the digits. He worries for an embarrassing amount of time about his contact name, chewing the side of his mouth in consideration- _should I use an emoji or not? Are we casual enough for that?_ In the end he settles for a little formula car emoji next to his first name, gives the phone back to Pierre who looks only mildly overwhelmed.

"So Monday? I'll text you?" Charles asks, can't fight the enthusiasm in his voice back down, and Pierre gulps his nervousness down but nods his head with the same sort of vigor.

"I'll be waiting for that text."

Charles flashes an award winning smile before disappearing back into the steadily growing bustle of the paddock, and Pierre is only left with his hand resting on his racing heart.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i almost hugely fucked this up, i stayed up literally all night after suzuka and wrote the second half of this, i was dead tired, went back to edit a word and almost deleted the whole thing, so uhh there was No More editing to this, im choosing not to think about it and im publishing this chapter as it is.

"Come on Max. This is serious," Pierre groans before flopping back down onto the hotel bed, landing with a rather dramatic thud.

The first person he had texted after Charles has sequestered him in the paddock was his editor. He had taken the time to give her a detailed explanation, even went as far as to say that it was a once in a lifetime feature on the inner workings of a certain Charles Leclerc and he would not only handle the photography but the writing as well, and all she had replied with was a winky face emoji and "don't work too hard". It was in that moment that Pierre truly realized that his entire life was filled with lovable but irritably smug bastards.

The second person was Max, who recieved a much more frantic and much less professional text from Pierre that read something like _"i have a really important thing and i need your help or im going to throw myself down the hotel stairs i swear"_, which mostly explains why the Dutchman is here now, in Pierre's hotel room, eyes glimmering with amusement as the older man creates a disaster area with his frantic pacing. Max leans back onto the pile of pillows behind him and rolls his eyes at Pierre's antics. It's the late afternoon of a Sunday after a race, and here he is in Pierre's cheap hotel instead of out celebrating with his team and getting drunk off his ass. It's not _too_ terrible of an inconvenience, and he really would do almost anything for the Frenchman, but he's never seen Pierre get this bent out of shape over a date before.

"You're being ridiculous, dude," Max deadpans, "I can't believe you're having your very own gay panic right now," he laughs, ignoring the daggers Pierre glares into him.

"There are so many things wrong with that statement," Pierre starts, tugs a button up onto himself and ruffles his hair into some sort of compliance in the mirror, "One, I'm not gay."

"Bi. Whatever," Max corrects himself halfheartedly, and Pierre nods in a rather pleased way.

"Two, that's pretty easy for you to say since you come from a country where being gay is like the national pasttime," Pierre continues, voice laced with humor, fingers fumbling as he struggles with the buttons.

"Hey, France is a pretty gay country," Max quips, and when Pierre turns around with his arms folded as if to say "_really?_", Max shrugs and speaks again, a bit more defensively.

"What? It is! Don't tell me it's not!" he says, voice increasing in octave before returning to normal, "I mean, you have nothing on Holland, but..." he trails off.

Pierre grins and laughs. "Exactly the point I was trying to make," he says, and Max shrugs in a noncomittal way, "anyways, where was I? Third? Third, I've been on dates with men before. I'm not-" He tackles the final button, straightens out the shirt in the mirror and spins to face the lump of tall Dutchman on his bed. Pierre's voice sounds self concious when it asks "Does this look okay?", and he sincerely hopes Max didn't catch that.

"Yeah, you look fine. Wear it with the black jeans though," he shrugs, but then he looks up at Pierre and squints, "Wait, isn't your date tomorrow? Why are you freaking out about this now? I mean, I know it's probably been ages since your nerdy ass got laid, but-" Max lets out a soft _oof_ when Pierre flops down next to him and smacks him in the chest, "why do you care so much about it?" He's is looking at Pierre earnestly, teal eyes analyzing as much as they possibly can, and Pierre feels some of his confidence wavering under his best friend's steely gaze.

"I just want to make a good impression," Pierre sighs, clutches a pillow and hugs it closer, "He's someone really important, and it matters a lot to me."

"Pierre," Max starts, throws an arm over to the Frenchman and tugs him closer so they're laying shoulder-to-shoulder, "If they don't like the impression of you being yourself than they're not worth your time," he says honestly, rests his head against the Frenchman's shoulder.

"Easy for you to say, Max Verstappen," Pierre laughs, and Max groans and reaches for the pillow in his clutch, smacking him in the face with it. Pierre feigns pain and pulls himself away from Max, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like somehow the pillow has broken it.

"Oh, shut up," Max groans, "I was trying to be nice to you, dickhead." He flips to his side, and when be looks up at Pierre, his eyes twinkle with mirth. "What do you mean by someone really important though? Did you get a sugar daddy or something?" Pierre's face turns red and he shakes his head adamantly.

"Ew, no. God no," he says, voice filled with disgust. His tone grows serious in only a moment's passing- "If the date goes well I'll tell you who it is."

"_Pierre_," Max moans dramatically, holding out the middle syllable in an annoyingly long fashion. "Why won't you just tell me?"

"Patience is a virtue, Max," Pierre states cryptically, voice barely masking his amusement, and he barely has time to grin at Max before there's a pillow hurtling towards his face.

\--

Charles has done a lot of really stupid things before, but right now he feels like he may have finally outdone himself.

The morning sun is blindingly bright outside the cozy bistro he agreed to meet Pierre at, and his sunglasses are doing a piss poor job of keeping him from having to squint. He probably looks like a hot mess, leaning against one of the support columns, eyes squinted and glaring into the distance, searching for someone who may never arrive. Pierre was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago, yet no signs of the Frenchman exist, and Charles can't help but check his messages two, three times, making sure he sent the right time and address-

"Sorry I'm late!" a familiar voice cuts through his thoughts, slicing his doubts in half. Pierre's standing in front of him, hair looking fashionably disheveled by the gentle breeze. "I slept through my alarm," he grins sheepishly, before getting distracted by the car keys in his hand and quickly turning around to double check he's locked it. A small silver Hyundai that's seen better days beeps pathetically when he hits the button on the fob twice.

"It's okay!" Charles exclaims, just relieved that he wasn't completely stood up. "Cool car, though," he teases.

Pierre sighs and gives Charles a deadly look. "It was all the rental company had left," he groans, and Charles laughs.

"Yeah, I'm kidding," he says, takes a moment to subtly check out Pierre. He looks _good_, almost model-worthy, even as a flustered mess. It only takes a moment before Charles decides Pierre is both very hot and incredibly endearing. "After you," he says, presenting the front door with a dramatic flourish of the arm, and Pierre shakes his head and smiles an amused smile that Charles thinks is bright enough to rival the sun as they enter the restaurant.

They settle into a quiet and secluded booth, far from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. Charles thinks he looks just unrecognizable enough with a fresh shave and in clothes that don't say Ferrari on them, but it still brings a hollow sense of comfort to almost have privacy. _You're on a date with a journalist,_ he thinks, _privacy was never an option, even if you thought it was,_ but he shrugs the negative thoughts away.

"So," he starts, flicking open the laminated menu on the table, "tell me about yourself, Pierre."

"You couldn't have made this more awkward, huh?" Pierre laughs, face slightly pink, and he shakes his head when Charles winces and mouths _sorry_.

"It's all good," he says cheerfully, "Well, you know my name. I'm from-"

"You're definitely French," Charles cuts him off, and then claps his hand over his mouth. _God, I am such an idiot._

Pierre doesn't skip a beat though, continues in his lulling accent-

"What gave that away, my name or my voice?" he laughs. "I'm from Rouen."

"Rouen," Charles repeats, praises himself for guessing somewhere northern when he first met Pierre, "It's pretty up there. I raced a couple of karting races up there before I did the Italian circuit."

"It's no Monaco," Pierre states, and it's Charles turn to be sheepish now, "but it's home, for sure. Well, I guess now because of work and school my home address is in the UK, but-"

"You work for...Motorsport UK, right?" Charles questions, and Pierre nods in silent confirmation, internally baffled that Charles remembers anything from their first interaction. "And you're in college still?"

"Yeah. Well..." Pierre trails off, "I'm almost not, anymore. Only have a couple of courses left before I graduate. Should be done ext semester."

Charles is only faintly shocked. While he can't even fathom wanting to spend any more time in a classroom doing worthless assignments, he can sense the never ending curiousity in Pierre that motivates him to finish.

"Sorry if this is kind of weird" Pierre adds in suddenly, somewhat randomly, "but do you mind if I take pictures of you? I uh... kind of promised my editor a feature about Charles Leclerc so that she'd pay for my travel next GP, " he awkwardly summizes, and Charles can almost feel his internal disappointment. _Everyone in the media is just like the rest, searching for a clickbait story to sell headlines._

"Sure. No problems with me. I did offer a private interview, didn't I?" Charles states, tries his hardest to veil the real emotion underneath, perks up a little bit when Pierre gives him another one of those disarming smiles.

"I want to, like, actually talk to you before doing all of that," he says, and Charles wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Pierre rolls his eyes and folds the menu in front of him. "You look good in this lighting," he adds, the photography instincts within kicking themselves into high gear, "and you should consider wearing colors that aren't red way more often."

"Yeah, I'll just let Ferrari know that," Charles winks, and is given another eye roll in return.

A female voice breaks the fragile atmosphere of what seems like lifelong comraderie as the waitress finally comes around to take their orders. Pierre orders some sort of crepes, grants Charles a glare when the former flashes him a shit-eating grin and mouths out _okay France,_ and Charles orders a slice of quiche himself, suddenly feeling very hungry.

"So," he says, puts his elbows up on the table the second the menus are gone and tucks his chin in between his hands, "Tell me more about your job, Pierre. How is it, being part of the media?"

Pierre freezes from where he's stirring sugar into his cup of coffee, looks very serious, and it almost startles Charles.

"Are you one of those drivers who hate the press?" he asks, voice sounding grave. "I love what I do and there's almost nothing I'd rather do more," Pierre finishes, not even giving Charles a chance to answer.

"No!" Charles answers quickly and mostly honestly, because he doesn't. He admires the work the paddock photographers put in to capture the scenes of a weekend with as much truth as possible- and while he'd hate to admit it, he's entertained way more photogs who happily give him some privacy than those who haven't. "It's awesome that you're passionate about what you do, I wouldn't expect any less."

"Good," Pierre says softly, almost as if to himself, and then their conversation falls back into friendly banter. "We can't all be racecar drivers." He takes a sip of the coffee, winces when the hot liquid scalds his tongue, and then immediately seems to revert back into friendly, only somewhat shy Pierre. 

"So, Charles," he begins, and Charles fills with a sort of warmth hearing his name pronounced with the correct intonation for once, "tell me something about you that Wikipedia won't."

"Well Pierre," he starts, "I have plenty of things to tell."

_I really like him_, Charles thinks, and for once he doesn't feel the immediate urge to crush the thought out of his subconcious, especially when Pierre grants him another sunny smile.

**Author's Note:**

> i have never been more excited to write anything in my life, i have Backstories and Things and hhhhhhh.  
considering making a tumblr to connect to this account, should i?? i havent had a tumblr in years lmaoo  
as always, thank you for any and all feedback you leave on this or any of my other stuff, it really makes my day and motivates me to write more! love yall xoxo


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